Miscalculation
by eldritchMortician
Summary: When the Riddler finds Harley Quinn in an injured heap in a back alley of Arkham City, he knows he should just walk away. There's nothing to be gained from getting involved, everything to lose, and it's just a distraction anyway. Unable to leave her there, however, he takes her to his lair to recover. How much trouble could she possibly be? Please R/R!
1. Chapter 1

Edward Nygma was not having one of his better days.

Not that any given day in Arkham City could even generously be described as "good." He had his hobbies to keep him busy certainly, but setting up his games and riddles meant wading through a never ending stream of cretins and thugs too dumb to live. Most of them didn't, it was true, but it didn't make it any less annoying.

Another thing was the atmosphere. All the shouting and shooting and throwing things, and whimpering. To hear them, no one at all was supposed to be there, and everyone in Arkham was there by pure accident. Granted the Gotham City police seemed to recruit from the bottom of the class every time, but even they couldn't miss gang tattoos and henchman uniforms. And they wondered why they kept getting caught. At least he was there because he wished to be for the moment; work to be done and all that. Still, it had been a most trying day, and he looked forward to returning to his lair and relaxing.

And so he waded through the debris strewn streets, the fools and annoyances, admiring the way his largest question marks lit up the night from building tops. Yes, he supposed it could be worse. He could be the sobbing pile of trash in the alley.

Ordinarily he'd have walked on. Any given day there was some poor wretch bemoaning their fate. Once in a while he'd recruited someone desperate and willing to do anything to survive. What gave him pause was that the voice sounded feminine.

As far as he knew there were three female inmates in Arkham City: Catwoman, Poison Ivy, and Harley Quinn—and he wasn't convinced that Catwoman stayed inside the wall most of the time. He supposed they might have started shipping in other prisoners, though he hadn't heard anything through his surveillance. They were too far inside the walls for it to be a guard.

_Curiosity killed the cat, Edward, _he reminded himself with a sigh, even as he slipped into the alley in search of the sound. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but it was not what he found.

Harley Quinn lay in a tangle among some broken boxes, one of her ponytails pulled loose, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth as she sobbed, trying weakly to push herself up into a sitting position. Glass littered the pavement around her and stuck out of bleeding cuts on her arms. Her makeup left dark lines as it flowed with her tears. High above he saw a broken window, glass still clinging to it and wood splintered outward. She'd come out of it with considerable force, and she'd been lucky the boxes had broken her fall.

He knew he should walk away; he had a suspicion of what had happened, and there was nothing to be gained by getting involved. Despite himself he knelt next to her, reaching to help her up, though he had no idea if it might hurt her more. Tearful blue eyes fixed on him, a small hand grabbing at his arm, desperately.

"My fault, I didn't get the joke. I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." She trailed off into choked sobs.

His suspicions confirmed, he sighed. This was asking for trouble, but what was the alternative? If he walked away she was as good as dead. In point of fact her psychotic now-ex boyfriend might be on his way downstairs to finish what he'd started. And he really didn't have a desire to see Harley dead. He'd worked with her. He might generously describe them as being on friendly terms most of the time. And her tearful apologies were heartbreaking, even to a villain such as himself.

"I'm going to regret this," he told her, matter-of-factly as he scooped her up. She made no reply, choosing that moment to pass out, her head on his shoulder. He'd never get the blood out of his jacket.

One thing Edward had a wealth of was information. It was a cliché, but no less true for it, that knowledge was power so he made certain to have an abundance of it. Therefore it was a trivial matter to locate a doctor and feed the information to a few of his minions along with specific instructions as to speed and the condition—blindfolded, conscious and frightened—he wanted said doctor in. He'd parked Harley in his bed for the moment, albeit reluctantly. There was nowhere else to put her other than his work table that was currently strewn with bits of traps and trophies. He had no idea where he would sleep, though he could always send the minions back out to find something suitable; it was only a temporary arrangement, after all.

He sat at his bank of computer monitors as he waited, flicking through his multitude of hidden cameras strewn throughout Arkham City, paying special attention to the alley he'd found Harley in. He was curious to see if the clown showed any measure of concern for her well-being one way or the other. As expected, the only thing that moved in the alley were thugs trailing from one place to another, and the occasional political prisoner scurrying by. He leaned back in his chair for the moment, watching the monitors, occasionally flicking them from one location to another, following the movements of gangs and Tyger patrols, watching with some amusement as one of Two-Face's thugs puzzled over one of his trophy cages, and finally following the progress his doctor was making toward the lair.

Ordinarily he didn't care for others visiting his private residence, even those working for him. He liked to keep everything at arm's length at least. Communication through phones or wireless suited his purposes better, though there were admittedly times such wouldn't work, as when one had a rival's ex-girlfriend bleeding all over one's nice sheets. He'd just have to put up with the visitors for the time being.

While he waited, he prepared to receive his hostage. Unaccustomed to visitors as he was, he still had several items stockpiled that would make an unruly houseguest think twice about crossing him. They were mostly intended as surprises for the Detective, but in an emergency, one made do. Humming, he selected an intimidating looking shock collar. It was a prototype, with inelegant construction and exposed wires, but that only enhanced its visual impressiveness. If he was going to have the doctor in his home, he was going to make sure the man was frightened enough to do as he was told and not a whit more or less. Yes, holding a gun on him would help, but if there was one thing that Edward had learned from Batman, it was that fear was a very powerful motivator, and shadowed, nebulous fears played nicely into a person's imagination. Nothing was more terrifying than one's own personal fears, and lacking Scarecrow's fear toxin, giving the imagination something to run with was the easiest way to evoke them.

To that end, when he observed his minions approaching his lair, he pulled his hat low, laid his cane across the arms of his chair, leaned back, and waited to be seen as lord of his domain silhouetted against monitors that showed every corner of Arkham City. Sometimes power was all about presentation.

He watched, smiling slightly as two thugs, one wearing the regalia of the Joker's gang, the other of Two Face's, escorted a nervous, blindfolded man in a city-issued raincoat. One of them carried a bag of supplies, the other held a pistol on the doctor. Edward gestured and they pulled off the blindfold.

The doctor was a short, balding man with a paunch and a very weak resolve. That combined with his skill in trauma medicine had made him the lucky winner of a trip to the lair. His watery eyes darted around the room, finally focusing on the chair in front of the glowing monitors where Edward posed, fingers laced, smiling slightly.

"Oh, god. You're the Riddler." He seemed in equal measure frightened and confused.

Edward rolled his eyes. "Well, Doctor Wade, aren't you clever? What tipped it off? The question mark jacket, or was it the cane? Maybe the hat? Do regale us with your observational skills."

Doctor Wade cleared his throat, trying to regain some control of the situation. It was admirable. Futile, of course, but one had to give credit where it was due. "What is it you want? Why did you bring me here?"

Edward stood, tossing his cane in the air, catching it, and striding forward with a grin. "You have a patient, Doctor Wade. You will patch her up, care for her, and leave supplies for later if they will be required." As he passed the table, he scooped up the shock collar, fastening it around the man's neck as his two minions held him still. "And you'll do this because, and I know you were wondering, if I press this button—" He held up a small remote control, with a yellow and a red button. He pressed the yellow one, sending a painful electric shock through his captive. "—you get some, shall we say, _encouragement_."Hhe brushed his thumb over the red button before continuing, "If I press this one, well… I'll need another one of your colleagues. I trust I'm making myself clear?"

The doctor stared at him, wide-eyed and nodded, clearly too afraid to form words just yet.

He smirked, satisfied with the level of compliance, and walked past, motioning the man to follow, his guards trailing behind carrying the supplies. He hesitated slightly before opening the door to his room. He was still not comfortable with the situation, but what else was there to do? Sighing, he opened the door, leading the way inside.

Harley was still unconscious on the bed, her hair a mess, her clothing torn. Blood had soaked the sheets in places despite the makeshift dressings he'd applied, and she looked pale.

Doctor Wade stared a moment. "That's Harley Quinn. What's she—" He caught himself, clearly already mindful of the shock collar. "I need my bag. Some of those need stitches. How was she hurt?" He looked to Edward, and shrank back as his eyes narrowed at the question. "I need to know if there's possible internal damage."

Edward nodded, the explanation made sense. "From what I could tell, she was propelled through a window and fell to the ground. There was debris that probably broke her fall a bit."

"I'd be happier if I could get X-rays…" Doctor Wade began, but trailed off as he saw Edward's expression. "I suppose I'll make do."

"Good man," he replied, moving to one side and half-sitting on his desk. The two thugs took up positions on the door.

The doctor glanced at his audience warily, but quickly turned to his work, opening his bag and laying out medical supplies. Once he was absorbed in his job his manner was less hesitant, his movements quick and certain as he removed bits of glass, cleaned wounds, and stitched. After a few moments he even had the Joker-suited minion handing him items and holding things. Edward watched for any sign of defiance, but once focused the man seemed dedicated to his patient. Or alternately, to keeping the Riddler's finger off the red button. It was all the same to Edward.

He waited as patiently as he could as the doctor patched her up, then slowly went over her, peeling off the corset she was wearing to search for broken ribs, feeling up and down each extremity. The minions watched this with an interest he found uncomfortable, but it was over soon enough and Doctor Wade straightened, looking over at Edward and shifting uncomfortably.

"I've done what I can without x-rays. Her blood pressure is good, and nothing seems broken. I'd still be happier if we took her somewhere I could be sure."

Edward sighed, pushing his hat back with his cane. "Yes, well, let's examine that idea shall we? Her psychotic boyfriend, you may have heard of him, pushed her out of a window. What do you suppose he'd do if he were to hear she'd turned up at one of your hospital stations, hmm?" He crossed his arms, arching a sardonic eyebrow. "Why, do you think he might overreact? Come in guns blazing to finish the job? Considering who it is, maybe a gas attack or something more…'funny' would be his style. Brilliant idea, doctor. I'm amazed you've made it this long without a knife in your throat. Now, what else do you need to do here?"

The doctor glanced over at Harley's sleeping form, and shook his head. "Well, considering that risk, no. I'm reasonably certain there's no internal damage, and I couldn't find evidence of a head injury." He reached into his bag, pulling out a bottle of pills. "She should probably take these, one tablet three times a day, just to keep from getting an infection. Otherwise, she should be seen if any condition worsens or she has deep pain or trouble breathing."

"You're finished, then?" Edward asked, taking the pill bottle and examining it.

Doctor Wade took a breath, and nodded. "If we can't take her to a proper hospital, yes, this is the best I can do."

Edward nodded to his men, who stepped forward. "Very well. Thank you for your time." He raised the remote and pressed the red button.

Doctor Wade didn't scream, one had to give him that. He did however go stiff and white and look close to passing out as the collar released, dropping to the floor. He stared wide-eyed and shaken at the Riddler. "You…but…"

Edward grinned, broadly, quite satisfied with himself. "As I said, if I pressed the red button I'd need a new doctor. I never lied about that, though you shouldn't get too comfortable." He glanced at his minions. "Blindfold him and put him back where you found him."

Fortunately the two did as they were told without attempting banter, and the doctor was grateful to go. After a moment Edward was alone again in his lair. Alone aside from Harley, who muttered something and shifted slightly in her sleep. He sighed, retreating from the room for the moment.

As soon as she recovered, she'd probably go crawling back to Joker. She would only be here a few days at most, then he could get back to his comfortable routine of perfecting death traps and setting out trophies for the bat.

It couldn't possibly be that bad for a few days.


	2. Chapter 2

Everything hurt when she woke up. Her head ached, her body felt like one big bruise, punctuated by sharp, pulling pains that flared when she moved.

Harley lay still for a long moment, gathering her wits, concentrating on each hurt and checking for symptoms of breaks. It had been quite a long time since med school, but injuries were something she had no small measure of experience with in various capacities. Satisfied that nothing seemed broken so far, just deeply bruised, she sat up, taking in her surroundings.

The first thing she noticed was that she had no idea where she was. It was obviously not her room, anything at the Joker's lair, or at Ivy's. The room was austere for the most part, giving little clue to who owned it. The bed she lay in was large, with gray sheets and blankets of fine quality if not extensive adornment. A chair sat nearby her bed, her corset neatly folded on the seat, her boots placed underneath. There were clusters of newspaper clippings on the walls around a black desk strewn with papers, books, and maps, as well as unidentifiable bits of metal. The closet doors stood open, a small array of clothing finally giving her an idea of who lived there, though it took her a moment or two to accept it.

Harley rubbed her head. Maybe she had a concussion, or was drugged and hallucinating. Why was she in Eddie's room? Or, alternately, why would she be hallucinating being in Eddie's room? Her head throbbed as she tried to remember what had happened to her.

She bit her lip as memories lazily pushed through the haze of her thoughts. Joker…he'd been angry. Worse than ever, and that was saying something. What had she done this time? What tiny thing had set him off? He'd been so touchy lately. Ever since everything at the asylum, and the Venom, he'd been even more unpredictable and violent than ever. He'd fly into rages for any reason, or none at all, and usually she was closest at hand when it happened. She closed her eyes, shivering. A window behind her, she remembered that. Broken glass, and falling…so high up, she should have died, the sound of his cruel laughter following her down, and down…

She sobbed once, softly, trying to muffle it with a pillow. He'd tried to kill her, and he hadn't even been the one to pick her up and get her patched up afterward. There was no flower waiting for her, no card, no "would it help if I said I was sorry?" Instead she was sitting in the Riddler's bedroom with a splitting headache and stitches.

She wiped her eyes, smearing makeup across her hand, and composed herself. Why was she in Eddie's room anyhow? She'd have expected someone like Ivy to help her out, but Eddie? Sure they weren't enemies, but neither were they really what she'd call friends. The last time she saw him was when he was being escorted into Arkham City, smirking the whole time. She'd waved, he'd tipped his hat, and they'd both moved along without a word. Since then they'd not crossed paths, though she'd seen more and more question marks popping up around the city. Puzzled, she got up on wobbly legs and headed for the door.

Edward was dozing in front of his monitors when he heard movement behind him. It took a split second to remember his houseguest; she hadn't been out nearly as long as he'd expected. Still, he glanced up to confirm in a reflection that it was her coming out of his bedroom, and not a nasty surprise. There had been a few of those at first, when some fools new to Arkham City had taken the attitude that it was "just the Riddler." That had been put rapidly and finally to rest, but even so for a moment he gripped his cane and tensed, ready to swivel, ready to strike.

She moved quietly behind him, stopping well out of reach of his cane, likely out of habit considering with whom she'd been living. He didn't turn just yet, waiting for her to speak.

"E-Eddie?" Hesitant, nervous, her voice spoke volumes about her confusion and trepidation. Well, she had just woken in a strange bedroom owned by a man she barely knew, after being pushed out of a window. He couldn't fault her for being cautious.

He turned in his chair, smiling in what he hoped was a friendly manner, pushing his glasses up. "Ah, you're awake." She looked frankly terrible, her hair a mess of blonde, red, and black tangles, her makeup in dark smears around her too-wide blue eyes, bruises purpling on her jaw and forehead. She had her arms wrapped around her body as though trying to make herself look smaller, and she looked…lost. Edward felt a sudden and unaccustomed pang of sympathy, and looked away, getting to his feet and brushing imaginary dust off his sleeves. "You, ah, I didn't expect you'd be up and about yet. You took quite a fall."

Harley looked around, staring at the tables full of trap parts, trophies, and blueprints, and at the huge wall of monitors that looked out over the city. Finally her eyes settled on him, and she rubbed her head, shifting a little, nervously. "Eddie, you brought me to your place?" She looked down at her arms, running a fingertip lightly over some of the stitches. "Did you have me patched up, too? I didn't think the doctors made house calls."

He shrugged, suddenly and for no reason at all feeling self-conscious. "Well, yes. You seemed bad off, and considering the circumstances under which I found you, I thought it would probably be prudent to be…discreet."

"Oh. Thank you," she said quietly.

He waited a moment for more, expecting an explanation, excuses for Joker's behavior, or even idle chatter, but she remained silent, looking worryingly close to tears. He doubted he would be much help in the case of an emotional breakdown. Edward preferred logic and intelligence to the messier feelings and irrationalities others seemed prone to, but he knew enough of Harley to realize she practically ran on vacillating emotion. Accordingly, he stepped closer, bringing up a finger to hover near her face. Distracted, she blinked, raising an eyebrow.

"What? You gonna beep my nose or somethin'?" she asked suspiciously.

Edward smirked. "No, Harley, you went to medical school. You ought to realize I need to check you for a concussion. Follow my finger with your eyes." He moved his hand and watched her eyes follow.

"Yeah, guess you're right." She sighed, relaxing a little and submitting to the check Doctor Wade had insisted needed to be done once she was conscious. To his relief she was distracted enough that she seemed to have forgotten about crying for the moment.

"You seem to be checking out all right," he observed once he'd finished shining a pen light in her eyes. "Honestly, I'm a little surprised you're doing so well."

Harley watched him for a moment, her eyes narrowed as though trying to figure him out. "Eddie, not that I'm not glad I ain't laying in a back alley, but why'd you go through all this trouble? I-I mean, I'm sure Mr. J woulda…he woulda sent someone." She sounded unconvinced herself, and looked away, swallowing.

He was uncertain how to address this. Certainly he could tell her that no, the Joker hadn't sent anyone out to check on her. That he'd not seen search parties, hadn't heard any activity or chatter related to her in any way. That the Jokers gang was all business as usual, and the Joker himself seemed even more jovial than usual from what Edward had seen of him on surveillance. "Maybe you should give him some time to cool down," he suggested lamely.

She glanced up, her eyes full of tears, and nodded.

And then, there was a long, agonizing moment during which they stared at one another. Edward hadn't the slightest idea what to say, and from her expression Harley wasn't doing much better. The silence stretched into a length well beyond socially acceptable, and finally he coughed, forcing himself to turn away, examining the monitors. "Would you—do you want to eat? The doctor said you should keep your strength up."

She wiped her eyes, glancing away and nodded. "S-sure, I think that's for the best."

Grateful that she'd calmed down somewhat, he inclined his head and led her to the kitchen. He, like the other power players in Arkham City, tended to come out well when it came to supplies. His minions gathered food and other items at the drop-offs, as they did for the ones they nominally served. The quality of food from the drops, however, left a good deal to be desired. Which was why Edward preferred to order out; naturally he knew how to get supplies from outside the walls. He rifled through his refrigerator, picking out an assortment of things as he had no idea what she'd eat.

As it turned out, he needn't have worried. Harley wasn't picky, and was quite hungry. For some time, she was silent, eating whatever he set in front of her, as he put on some coffee and sat down, sipping the steaming mug as she ate.

After a time, she looked up at him, raising an eyebrow. "So, why'd you take me here?" She wiped her mouth, and took a gulp of coffee. "I mean, you coulda just walked off. Aren't you worried something bad'll happen?"

He raised an eyebrow, watching her stare at him. "You'd prefer I didn't?"

Harley shook her head and frowned. "No, Eddie, believe me, I'm grateful. Sounds like I wasn't doing too hot," she bit her lip, "I just can't figure why you didn't just drop me off at Red's or something."

Edward looked away, adjusting his collar. "Well, you know, Harley…the last time Ivy and I met, things didn't go well."

She paused, her cup halfway to her lips. "Ohhh, yeah. The whole in your living room tied up with psychotropic plants, yeah. I forgot that."

"I didn't," he replied dryly. "I doubt she has either. And I really didn't want to try navigating through her mind-controlled bodyguards and hostile plants while trying to juggle you safely."

"Yea, I suppose that makes sense." She chewed her lip nervously, glancing away and then back. "I guess I don't sound too grateful. It's not that, I just…"

Edward considered her discomfort, sipping his coffee. She was having a hard time putting words to what she was so obviously thinking, probably searching for a "nice" way to say it. The analytical part of him wanted to watch and wait, see how she reacted in the end, but he knew that wasn't terribly kind of him. "You want to know what I want in return. That's the hesitation, isn't it?"

Harley had the good grace to look guilty. "W-well, you know how it is. Especially now, in the city; everybody's out for themselves, looking to get one up on everyone. Times are tough for everyone but the big players, and without Mister J…" she trailed off shrugging, staring at her empty mug.

He rubbed his chin. "Look, Harley. It wasn't really my intention when I set out last night to wind up with you in my hideout. I found you in the alleyway and couldn't bring myself to just leave you there. I'm not the nicest man in the world, but I know you. You and I have worked together occasionally. I didn't bring you back here intending to exact payment."

She smiled a little. "Out of the goodness of your heart, huh?"

He grinned back. "There is a little, believe it or not."

Harley laughed a little, pushing a hand through her hair. She still seemed a little skeptical, but smiled at him almost warmly. "Well, I guess I ought to say thanks. I, uh, I won't be in your hair long."

"I admit you've seemed rather more recovered than I expected," he observed, pleased to find an easy segue into the comment. Scant hours after being pushed through a window, Harley was up and moving around with barely any trouble or sign of pain. She was resilient, certainly, but this seemed a bit too much so. It made him curious, and if there was one thing he couldn't quite abide it was leaving his curiosity unsatisfied. Edward very much liked to know things.

Harley cocked her head a little and smirked at him, pushing her cleaned plate out of the way and resting her elbows on the table. "Oh, that's a little present from Red. When we first started hanging out she gave me some stuff to drink so we could play together and I wouldn't get all sick because of her toxins. It had some other side effects."

He nodded slightly, mentally filing the rumors about Harley and Ivy into a higher level of plausibility. "Ahh, so she gave you a bit of a boost. Nice of her."

"Oh, that was when Mister J and I were having a, uh, little trouble with our relationship. She wanted to give me an edge to take him out, but, well, you know how it is when you really care about each other. It's hard to stay mad long."

Edward didn't choose to reply to that as he couldn't find anything politic to say. How did one tell someone that they were most likely to be killed by their significant other? If she didn't know it by now, his broaching the subject would be worse than useless. Besides which, his recent relationships had been… brief was an accurate word.

Oh, there were always groupies for the big name villains, and he had indulged a time or two, but those were never particularly serious. Just dalliances with women who had convinced themselves they knew all about him, then became impatient with his work, with his obsessions. Always asking him why he felt the need to leave riddles when Batman could solve them and defeat him. Always asking questions—the wrong questions, never good ones, never insightful ones, never the ones that mattered. When he glanced up again, Harley was watching him, thoughtfully, and he cleared his throat.

"Sorry, just brooding. You know how we deep men get." He put on a grin.

She shrugged a little. "Not really my business, Eddie. I mean, I was a psychiatrist and all, but one thing I learned for sure is people only tell ya stuff when they're ready." She stretched, wincing and flinching as some of the stitches pulled. "Bleh, I feel gross."

"You did land in an alleyway in a trash pile, then spend several hours asleep." He shrugged, grateful that she changed the subject. "I had my minions—er, men—get you some fresh clothes, they're in a bag in the bedroom. I can't vouch for the sizes or styles as it was a bit of a rush job. There are fresh towels and toiletries in the bathroom, I thought you might want a shower once you were up."

Harley smiled at him and it felt almost warm. "Thanks, Eddie. And you can call 'em minions. I won't tell. It's better than what Mister J called our guys." She stood up and began clearing her dishes to the sink.

He gave in to his curiosity. "What was that?"

She glanced over her shoulder and shrugged. "Targets." Harley paused as she passed him, and leaned down, kissing his cheek. "Thanks, Eddie," she said softly, and headed to the bathroom.

Edward watched her go, toying with his long-cold coffee cup, not certain how to feel. Having someone there to converse with was actually somewhat pleasant, and it had been a very long time since Edward had interacted with anyone but his minions. Even someone of his intellectual superiority needed to socialize occasionally. Certainly the ideal would have been over brandy in some exclusive library, perhaps Mensa or the like, but his peculiarities, his obsessions would never allow it. He wasn't one to dwell on what might have been, or indeed what might be. Harley would stay a day or two, then go right back to the Joker. He'd probably be tired of having someone else in his private sanctum by then. She'd go back, and he would continue his work alone, as always. It was best that way; it was what he preferred.

Deeper in the apartment the shower started up, and he stood, dumping his cup and heading to his work table. Just a few more days and all of this would be back to normal, in the interim it might be pleasant to have someone to talk to. And when she went back, well, that was her choice. Nothing he could do to change her mind if she didn't want it changed, even if he wanted to.

He took a breath, clearing his mind of all but the task in front of him, and went to work.

Everything would be back to normal soon.


	3. Chapter 3

Harley was in the shower for what seemed like forever. Long enough that Edward considered checking on her, though he couldn't quite work up the nerve before the water finally shut off, indicating she was probably still alive. He wasn't a prude by any means, and he was far from blind, but it was somehow distasteful to him to try to spy on her.

It would be…rude.

He was, after all, of a higher class than the normal brutes and thugs that made up Arkham's population. More truly refined than the madmen or the pretenders like Oswald. For all the weird little man's affectations and pretentions, he was as coarse as they came. Money was poor substitute for real refinement, and while Edward wouldn't claim to be a chic sophisticate, he was aware that certain things were simply not done. Which was why he hadn't peeked into her shower, and why he remained fixed to his seat and kept his expression quite neutral when Harley trotted through his living room wearing a towel that was hardly up to the task of keeping her decent.

She glanced up, smiling cheerfully, her hair dripping on her shoulders, beads of water standing on her smooth, creamy skin and reflecting the greenish glow of his monitors as she left moist footprints on the hardwood.

"Forgot my clothes in the bedroom," she giggled, raising one hand to point, which loosened the towel into an even more precarious state. He couldn't think of any reply before the door had closed behind her.

He sat for a moment, congratulating himself for his composure, and took a slow, deep breath. It had been meaningless—pure guileless innocence on her part. She hadn't been deliberately trying to entice him, he was certain of it, so it was best to let it pass unremarked on. Best to banish the image from his mind and not dwell on it.

Dammit, though. He was still a man, and Harley was still naked. Or near enough to provoke him to no small distraction. It all made sense now; the very fact that Joker managed to ever get anything done, let alone the extensive empire he had built up, with her flinging herself at him proved that the man was quite clearly blind. Or a eunuch. Maybe both. Madness alone couldn't possibly explain it.

He realized he'd been staring stupidly at the bedroom door for some time and shook himself, turning reluctantly back to his work. If she made a habit of walking around like that, he'd never have the trophies or death traps finished. He supposed he ought to talk to her about it, or find her a robe perhaps. If it persisted, of course. No sense in bringing it up then and there. Only if it became problematic.

Edward groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. It wasn't like him to get distracted from his work, but again, though he was far superior to the vast majority of them, he was still human. And it couldn't do all that much harm, really. Harley would eventually decide her sabbatical was over, go back to her killer clown, and life would go back to its nice, predictable patterns.

"What'cha doin'?" Harley quite suddenly ducked around him, peering at the collection of metal pieces he'd been assembling. He hadn't heard her come out of the bedroom, and so he jumped, startled. She smiled brightly.

It was rare he saw her in anything but one of her "work" outfits and attendant makeup. Seeing her in a simple pair of jean shorts and a pink tee shirt, her face freshly scrubbed and her blonde hair loose and in damp strands, gave him pause.

She looked softer; aside from the black and red dyed tips of her hair, she looked like she could be any young woman in any home in Gotham. It was a strange thing to contemplate, though he supposed he must look strange to her as well, his jacket hanging on a hook, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his tie and hat abandoned on his desk. Before then they had always been "on." They'd always been their personas. There and then, they were Eddie and Harley, when always before, no matter what they said, they'd been Riddler and Harley Quinn.

He cleared his throat, turning back to the item he had been working on. "It's a set of restraints," he began, holding up the cuff to show her.

Harley grinned, wickedly. "Ooh, kinky, Eddie!" She winked, clearly teasing, and he chuckled.

"Cute. I'll have several sets of these and once I finish, well, I'm planning some interesting surprises for the Dark Knight, should he not be quite…clever enough." He couldn't quite keep the smug smile from his face, particularly as Harley's expression brightened with interest.

"Oh, Eddie, will you tell me? Please please please? What're you gonna do?" She bounced with excitement, and he felt a small flush of pleasure.

Ordinarily his activities were solitary. Oh, he had his minions to help with the setup, but the planning, the designing, the execution, those were pleasures he didn't share with anyone else. He usually preferred it that way, but he had to admit it was quite pleasant having someone to admire his work, and he was certain she was doing so honestly; his schemes were far too cerebral and required far too much patience to appeal to the likes of the Joker, so she wasn't trying to steal his ideas to curry favor.

He smiled, broadly, and nodded. "If you like, certainly. Now, pretend you're Batman."

Harley giggled, delighted. "Okay!" She darted away into the bedroom as he watched, puzzled until she returned with a hooded sweatshirt tied around her neck for a makeshift cowl and cape. She scowled, theatrically, and glared around the room, affecting a low, gravelly voice. "I am vengeance! I am the night! I have serious psychosocial issues I deal with by punching people!"

Edward laughed; he couldn't help himself. "Well, I suppose I asked for that," he held up the cuff he'd been working on. "Now, you find some prisoner, trussed up with these. They look rather fragile and breakable, wouldn't you say?"

She leaned closer, examining the restraint he proffered, and nodded. "Hmm. Yeah, I suppose that they do."

"Almost as though you could just break them by hand, wouldn't you say? Little effort required for someone as strong as you, Dark Knight? Go on." He smiled, extending the cuff, and she reached for it, but before she could wrap her fingers around it, he pulled back. "Ah, while I actually hope Batman does, I would prefer you didn't leave your hands on the inside of the cuff."

Harley cocked her head, puzzled by this, but did as he asked and gripped the edges of the metal circle instead, pulling sharply. As expected, it triggered the mechanism inside quite smoothly, razor sharp blades dilating the inside of the cuff. It wouldn't quite sever a hand, but the damage it would do to a wrist, and hopefully a certain caped nuisance's fingers, would be substantial. She gasped, startled, nearly dropping the thing, her eyes wide. "Wow, Eddie. That'll slice something important, and it'll be Bat-brain's fault."

He winked, taking the cuff back and placing it on the table. "That's the idea, yes. It will be even more interesting if he starts with the collars. I thought about making them explosive, but the blades are far more concealed, if lacking in collateral damage." He felt faintly gratified as Harley beamed, nodding quickly.

"That's really clever, Eddie. But you always were the smart guy. And thanks for warning me about not getting my fingers in there. That wouldn't have been a whole lot of fun."

He shrugged a little, sweeping the cuff into the pile of completed and tested gadgets. "Well, obviously. Wouldn't want you to lose a fingertip, I'd just have to send out for that doctor again, and he was entirely tiresome. You're lucky you slept through it."

She laughed. "Ah, yeah, I bet. But, you know, thanks anyhow. Mist—uh, some people would think it was funny to keep it a surprise." She looked away, chewing her lip. "So, uh, anyhow. Do you want me to, you know, help?"

The question took him by surprise. He had assumed that she would stay a few days, or a week, recover from her wounds, and then leave to be injured by the clown another day. He hadn't put much thought into what she would do during the time she was recovering. Clearly she had no intention of lying around in bed. Perhaps it would be refreshing to have someone halfway tolerable to assist him for a while. And she did seem quite appreciative of his efforts, unlike the minions, who never seemed to grasp, well, anything. And looking at her, she seemed almost hopeful as she waited for his response.

"If you think you're up to it, certainly," he finally said.

She smiled happily and bounced on her heels. "Ok! I'm not too good at the mechanical stuff, I guess, but, well, I'll do whatever to help out and I'll stay out of your way when you're busy."

He somehow doubted the latter part of her declaration, but found himself quickly warming to the idea of having her there. It wasn't that he was lonely, certainly, but occasional company could be agreeable. "Well then, I suppose I should show you where to find everything."

Harley was eager to please, he had to give her that. She followed him through the apartment, remarking on its generous size and the sheer number of security features, and dutifully paid attention as he pointed out where tools, supplies, and weapons were kept for easy access. He only had to stop her from pressing the really enticing buttons on his computer banks, which happened to be the buttons he least wanted pressed at the moment.

Still, she soon clasped her hands behind her to minimize temptation, and the remainder of the tour and explanations went without incident or more near-disaster. He reiterated not to press buttons perhaps more times than necessary, but considering Harley's attention span, he felt it prudent; best not to leave things to chance when one wrong move could mean hours of work fixing the mistake. There wasn't really much in the apartment at present as he'd already moved a good deal of things into his puzzle rooms, but there was still much to be done. If Harley wanted to be helpful, he might as well let her. It was probably best that she not get bored and try to do something on her own.

It didn't seem long, really, but when next he glanced at a clock it was near dawn, and Harley was yawning expansively. He could do with some rest himself, he had to admit, and he stretched, rubbing the back of his neck. "I apologize. I should have let you rest before this, Harley. You do need to take it easy to recover I assume, strange plant healing powers aside."

She rubbed her eyes, smiling a little. "Nah, it's ok. I wanted to move around a little." She hesitated, glancing at the single bedroom. "Eddie, you want me to just camp out on the couch? I mean, it's your place, and all. I guess if you didn't care we could share, but I'm afraid I'd keep you up or something 'cause I'm a little bit of a restless sleeper."

Edward cleared his throat, glancing away, unwilling to speak his thoughts. "I…no, Harley. That's not necessary. Take the bed. I'll be fine with the couch. I can have something brought in later." He was surprised to realize he honestly didn't mind. Certainly sleeping in his own bed would be preferable, but he couldn't find it in himself to be annoyed. He didn't even want to contemplate the offer to share the bed, and reminded himself sharply that she meant nothing by it.

Harley smiled a little, shrugging. "Well, if you're sure, Eddie." She darted in suddenly, wrapping her arms around him tightly, the faintly perfumed scent of her still damp hair reaching him as she pressed against his body, soft and warm, her delicate hands stroking along his back. He was so startled it took him a moment to return the hug, and when he did it was hesitant. He didn't want to reopen her wounds, or put his hands in the wrong place, or give her the impression he was thinking of the things he was trying very hard not to.

She leaned up, her lips barely brushing his stubble-rough cheek. "Thanks, Eddie," she said softly, and then released him, padding back to the bedroom. She smiled at him over her shoulder, slipped inside, and closed the door.

Edward sat heavily on the couch, sighing. That last exchange had been nicer than he wanted to admit. It had been quite a long time since he'd had any real, honest human interaction; a hazard of the profession to be certain, but that didn't mean he was oblivious to its absence. He didn't dare let himself get attached, though. He lay back on the couch, folding his hands behind his head and hoping to fall asleep quickly.

He didn't want to contemplate too deeply the inevitable end to this. Harley would eventually tire of her vacation, tire of Edward, and go back to the Joker. She might come to him for help the next time they fought, she might not. The pattern was clear, and as repetitious as a fractal. It would continue with Harley going back to the Joker, on and on until he pushed her out of a high enough window, or aimed more carefully with his acid flower.

If he were honest, he would have to say he hated that the outcome was forgone, but there wasn't anything to be done about it. He pushed the thought out of his head as best he could, and closed his eyes. Sleep came slowly on the hard couch, with his unusual houseguest in the next room, with things he couldn't stop thinking of on his mind. Perhaps something would change, perhaps not. Intellectually he knew staring at the ceiling was an unproductive exercise, but even he was prone, however occasionally, to bouts of irrational thinking. Finally he drifted off, reassuring himself that things would look better after some rest.


End file.
